Hell of a Drug
by Leisure
Summary: The seven words that Dr. John Watson never wants to hear: "We're dropping the investigation until further notice." Sherlock flips out. Slash or gen, it's up to you.
1. Frosting a Cake

A/N: This be my first Sherlock Holmes fic, and i chose BBCverse. Go figure. i would call this one possibly pre-slash, or maybe they just have an unconventional relationship. Because no matter how you ship them, ACD's Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are soul mates—always have been and always will be. That's the important part, folks. Also: i tried to keep the POV in third person objective, but every now and then a Johnthought sneaks in there.

uA note on style/u: Yeah. My style is weird. But i promise, if you slow down and read carefully, it makes sense. It is NOT my intention to mess with people; that's just the way i write, and i will not change. Sorry if it's confusing to anybody…

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_The seven words that Dr. John Watson never wants to hear:_

We're dropping the investigation until further notice.

_Oh God. Here we go. _John bit his lip and glanced at his friend. Over the weeks, the detective had grown even paler and thinner than usual, and at present his temper was akin to that of a nap-deprived two-year-old. He'd slept an average of fourteen hours in the past seven days, causing delicate dark grey semicircles to form under his eyes. In spite of his exhaustion Sherlock seemed to have mustered enough energy to turn his acid tongue on Lestrade, and John braced himself for it.

We are most certainly _not_ dropping this investigation, Sherlock growled, fixing his fathomless glare on the inspector. This is the second case in a row; i won't stand for any more incompetence. Not even from you.

Sherlock, it's been nearly a month and a half. Lestrade collapsed into his chair and rested his elbows on the desk in front of him. We have no leads, no witnesses, we haven't found any new evidence in the past three weeks.

That doesn't matter. Sherlock was nearly shouting now, and a pale pink tinge had risen into his cheeks. John shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

But it _does _matter, Lestrade insisted. It matters a great deal. Other cases have come up and we need your help with those. Crime in London doesn't just halt while you're working on one that catches your fancy.

If you could just get me another interview with the victim's sister—

Impossible, Lestrade interrupted. i told you i've already tried, and you won't learn anything from her you don't already know.

So you're abandoning this case as well because you've come to a few dead ends, Sherlock snarled, bearing his perfectly white teeth. How very typical. Good show, Inspector. Bravo. He clapped his gloved hands together, stopping only when John elbowed him hard in the ribs. Lestrade shook his head.

Look, i'm dropping it because we have limited resources and time and we've made no headway, surely you must see that.

No, Sherlock said stubbornly. All i see is your division's incompetence.

Fucking Nora, i'm doing the best i bloody well can! Lestrade was the one on his feet and yelling now. God, you act like such a child sometimes. Lestrade opened a drawer and took out a CD case, which he tossed across the desk at the detective. Why don't you take this home and listen the last track—

Greg—

—it's called "You Can't Always Get What You Want".

Greg, John repeated. Please. Lestrade dropped his eyes and fell silent, looking more than a little ashamed of himself. John turned to Sherlock and touched his arm.

i think it's time to go home. Sherlock shrugged John's hand away.

i will not abandon this case.

i'm not telling you to abandon it, John said, choosing his words carefully. i'm telling you that you need to take a break. We all need one. It's nearly midnight. Sherlock clenched his fists.

i can't.

Lestrade is perfectly capable of contacting you if anything comes up, John said firmly. Now let's go. Without another word, Sherlock turned on his heel and stormed of the office in a whirlwind of dark silk and Burberry.

Sorry, John said to the inspector. He's been a bloody Tasmanian devil lately. i've had a hell of a time dealing with him.

i know John, Lestrade said. i know. i shouldn't have shouted at him. He doesn't look well at all.

It isn't your fault. John sighed heavily and perched on the edge of Lestrade's desk. Four months ago, Sherlock was in one of his moods and i couldn't pry his miserable arse off the sofa for anything. The last case kept him going for a while, until—

Until we let it go. Lestrade finished John's sentence. One of the most complex bloody investigations i've ever seen.

Yeah. John picked a loose thread from his jumper. Sherlock really lost it then, didn't come out of his room for over a week. By the time the McDaniel case came up he was practically comatose. He wasn't eating and he'd lost so much weight...i was certain that this case would be the one. This case would level him out, keep his mind occupied. John drew a shaking hand through his hair. But now it's all gone to hell and i just. i'm at the end of my fucking tether. We both are.

Then go, Lestrade told him. Go be with him. You may not see it, but he's calmer when you're around. You're good for him. John smiled briefly and nodded. He headed for the open door but before he reached it, Lestrade stepped forward and caught him by the elbow.

Listen, Lestrade said, lowering his voice a little. Last time i saw Sherlock like this, he…well, just keep a close eye on him, okay. John blinked.

What do you mean?

Just trust me. Lestrade moved his hand up to John's shoulder and squeezed it briefly. You'll see. John didn't know how to reply to that, so instead he tried for an encouraging smile and left the inspector's office. Luckily enough, when John reached the street Sherlock Holmes was still standing there, waiting in all his soundless leather-gloved glory, cab at the curb. John got into the cab and it pulled out into traffic, into the constant blinking lights.


	2. Glitch

A/N: **Hey so** there be some Mature Content here. But not the sexy kind...read the title of the fic, yo. Honestly i'm not feeling very p0rny right now so you will find no sex here, just pre-slashy overtones and cuddles and _talking_. Oh boy. And while i do think gayness is *damned* hot, i want to keep this *mainly* a friendship piece. In a way it's almost hotter when two dudes can be close without sex. But yeah. It'll still a bit slashy, because this is BBC Sherlock we're talking about. Thanks for reading, folk.

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Glitch: Blind Melon

At least take your jacket off. John tried to catch Sherlock's jacket sleeve as he stalked past, but his friend pulled away and continued to pace.

Sherlock hasn't spoken to John at all on the cab ride back to Baker Street. His fatigue was beginning to show a little, as took him much longer than usual to climb the seventeen steps, but upon entering the flat he immediately began to pace the length of the living room muttering under his breath about the case. He had not stopped moving since.

Do you want to watch telly or something, John offered. i'll stay up with you. He could see tiny beads of sweat forming on Sherlock's brow, glistening in the firelight. The shadows under his eyes were slowly turning from gray to winestain purple. John turned up the television and went over to look out the window, trying to block out the manic tapping of Sherlock's black oxford shoes.

It didn't work.

Sherlock, he said half-heartedly. i know you're upset about the case but you really should sit down for a minute. Do you want to pass out again like you did last week. Sherlock ignored him except for a slight headshake. After a few more attempts at communication John could bear the tension no longer, it was suffocating him pushing down his throat and he couldn't bear it. He turned off the television and left his flatmate to wear a track in the floor.

It was two thirty in the morning when John sat up in bed and decided that sleep had deserted him for good. Outside, thin clouds rolled over the moon like ghosts. The flat was blessedly silent but not completely dark like it was when all the lights were out. John picked his faded gray T-shirt from the floor and pulled it on as he made his way towards the source of light. As he predicted, it was coming from Sherlock's room.

Sherlock's bedroom door was open a crack, so John had no compunction about knocking briefly before pushing it open.

Sherlock, i—oh God. John felt his heart buck up into his throat.

Sherlock was sitting on his bed with a short pink tube and a hardback copy of War and Peace in his hands, apparently having just finished snorting a sizeable line of cocaine off the cover. He looked up at John with sullen indifference, his silver eyes gleaming flinty in the lamplight. Then he very slowly and deliberately pressed the tip of his ring finger to the book's surface and raised it to his mouth, rubbing a thin coating of power over his gums.

John wanted to leave, but he didn't. Instead he rubbed his tired eyes

crossed the bedroom

and seated himself in the chair across from his friend.

Why, he asked. Sherlock made a dismissive noise and put the book down on his bedside table.

Surely even you can deduce _why_, John. He plugged one nostril and sniffed hard before swallowing. But honestly, it's really none of your business.

How can you…wait, what the fuck is that, John asked suddenly, pointing to the tube that Sherlock still held between his spidery fingers. Is that a. Is that a tampon tube, Sherlock Holmes?

Yes. Sherlock shrugged. It's completely sanitary, i think you of all people can appreciate that. John pinched the bridge of his nose between finger and thumb.

Just. Let me take your pulse. Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

That's completely unnecessary.

Let me take your pulse, John said again. Sherlock languidly extended a willowbranch arm towards John, who took him by the wrist and pressed two fingers against the radial artery. The heartbeat he found there was a little fast and fluttery, but not enough of either to cause alarm. John dropped his friend's wrist and frowned.

i thought you mixed cocaine in solution. Snorting seems a little too crude for you.

i couldn't be bothered, Sherlock admitted, pulling on his robe. i didn't want to wait. He was not looking at John but instead at an invisible point on the wall behind him.

i wish you would talk to me, John said sadly. Before it comes to this. Sherlock smirked and took a cigarette from his silver case.

And why should i do that.

Sherlock, you're my best friend. John's voice cracked a little. We live together. i want to know when you're this unhappy.

So you can search my room and lecture me and beg me to talk about _feelings,_ Sherlock said bitterly. No thank you. He sprawled back dramatically onto the bed and turned his back to John. The strike of a match was the only sound in the room, and for a minute or two John sat watching little coils of smoke trail up from the ball of long limbs and blue dressing gown.

John looked at the door. Then he got out of the chair and sat on the edge of the bed. A few smoke rings drifted up from Sherlock's curled form, but he did not move.

Listen, John started. You're a genius Sherlock, nobody denies that. i realize that you fully understand how much cocaine can damage your body and your _mind—_John paused briefly for emphasis—we've had that conversation before. But the end, it's your life. i have no right to interfere. Unless you really start abusing yourself, that is. Then all bets are off. He had to pause for a moment to get ahold of himself.

So next time, please just tell me when you feel like you need to resort to drugs. i promise i won't berate you or lecture you or throw out your stash. i just want to know. That way, even if i don't succeed in talking you out of it, at least i won't be too shocked when i walk in on you putting half of Bolivia up your nose. John laughed, half-hysterically. i must be a complete idiot like you're always telling me. i mean, i've been a doctor for ten years now, and i fancy myself a pretty intuitive bloke. But. With you i never see this shit coming.

That's because you idolize me, Sherlock said wearily, sitting up. He took a long drag off his cigarette, exhaling two even columns from his nostrils. You'd like to imagine that i am above such base, instant gratification. He smiled grimly, his pupils blown black wide. Sorry to disappoint.

It's not like that, John retorted. i just don't see why you jumped straight to coke because a few cases didn't pan out the way you wanted

Do you think i _look forward _to losing a case just so i can get high? Do you honestly think i want that? Sherlock snarled softly.

But Lestrade _told _you he has other investigations lined up, John pointed out. It's not like you're out of work here. i don't understand, Sherlock—

For christ's sake...Sherlock looked daggers at him for a moment, and then the anger was gone. i don't understand either, alright? He lowered his eyes and stared at his knees, all the fight suddenly burned out of him. i don't understand it either. i wish i did. Sherlock crushed out his cigarette and dropped his head into his hands. You have no idea what it's like in here, John.

You're right, John said. i don't. Sherlock fell silent again, grinding his teeth and tugging compulsively at a lock of hair. A steady pressure began to build at the corners of John's eyes and he cringed against it. He had never seen his friend so exhausted and distraught and infuriated with himself, and it picked at John's heart like a scab.

Come here, he said gently. Sherlock glanced at him before scooting over so that their knees were touching, so that skin and bones and rigid muscles were pressed against him. John tentatively put his arm around the detective and smiled when Sherlock slumped against him instead of flinching away. He smelled like smoke and raw silk.

i don't think any less of you, you know, John said quietly. i just worry, that's all. Sherlock lowered his sweaty head to John's shoulder and drew a slow, shuddering breath.

That's better, John murmured, rubbing his hand up and down his friend's back. Just relax. Sherlock was still trembling slightly, possibly from the cocaine or from lack of food or a combination of the two, but he'd stopped grinding his teeth and his breaths were evening out. John just sat with him and rubbed his back and waited for the rigors in his limbs to calm, waited for _him_ to calm,

and even out,

and come back down.


End file.
